He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was
almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they
had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage
into the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said
one thing more:
"I shall rejoin my dear wife."
It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his
uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love.
The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied
him to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light
doze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning
wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and
said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets;
he was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic
injection.
"It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment."
The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it
was one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner.
"It's no use your waiting," he said.
"There's nothing I can do," said the doctor.
When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter,
who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out
the body.
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